


solid ground

by neutrophilic



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: First Time, Honor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7829548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neutrophilic/pseuds/neutrophilic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca doesn't kill Marcus because it wouldn't be honorable. Or, at least, that's what he tells himself at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	solid ground

**Author's Note:**

> For #7
> 
> I was going to call this "four times Esca thought about Marcus's death and one time that Esca thought about Marcus's 'death'" but I decided to be less obnoxious and name it after the song I obsessively listened to while writing it instead. I hope you like it.

**1.**

Esca had known Marcus for only a handful of days, but he was already becoming familiar with the shape of him. The first day, when Esca was almost overcome with self-disgust—he should be dead, safely dead like the rest of his family and his clan—he'd been ordered to help Marcus to dinner. Marcus had refused as soon as his uncle entered the room, Esca in tow, his lips tight, but his uncle insisted, and eventually Esca found himself with Marcus's arm draped around him, slowly making his way out the door and towards the table.

At that point, Esca had only a rough understanding of his injury, but one of the slaves—one of the other slaves—had told him all about how the young master had lingered between this life and the next for weeks, and he guessed that the fever must have taken away most of Marcus’s strength. He wasn’t as heavy as Esca might have expected from the way he looked.

But about half-way through their journey, Esca was surprised when Marcus let out a soft groan, almost a whimper, and the full weight of him crashed down onto Esca’s shoulders. He'd been wrong about Marcus wasting away, he must have been trying to save face by using his bad leg more than he should. Stupid. Marcus inhaled, as if he were about to say something, while Esca tried to regain his balance, but when Esca began the process to get them moving again, he stopped. The less talking, the better, in Esca’s opinion.

By now, Esca almost felt as the imprint of Marcus's body all along his side was permanently fixed on him, that if he reached up and felt his shoulder, there’d already be a groove worn in it. Esca had spent most of his days since he’d come there slowly shuffling from chair to chair, Marcus’s arm heavy around him. Esca could mark the hour by the length of time Marcus could stand to sit still, by the way his grip against Esca’s back would tighten as his pain grew, by the way Marcus’s head would start to droop after dinner, his breath against Esca’s ear.

Holding Marcus down was something different entirely.

Esca had avoided looking directly at Marcus ever since their first conversation. If it made him seem subordinate, then so be it, he knew he was superior to any Roman. What they thought of him didn't matter. Marcus's face, the way he'd been surrounded by sun, the way pity had pinched at his mouth, all of that was etched on the back of Esca's eyelids. He didn't need to study Marcus’s face to bring back the way he'd felt stretched out on the ground of the arena, ready to die, prepared for the last thing he ever saw was a sympathetic stranger in a jeering crowd.

But now, Esca had no choice but to look him square in the face and meet his eyes. There were flecks of green in his eyes, Esca hadn’t noticed before. A new detail to add to his mental picture. It was a relief when Marcus closed his eyes to brace himself against the surgeon digging in deeper. Esca shifted his gaze down, and he decided that Marcus’s face was too wide, especially at the bottom. A man should have more of a chin, less of a neck. Though if Esca wanted to be fair, and he did not, it was clear that part of the problem was the sheer amount of muscle packed onto him, including on his poor overstuffed neck.

Marcus was stronger than him, even now, drunk on unwatered wine, the smell thick in Esca's nostrils, right after he'd crawled out of the sickbed, only to get right back in. Esca wasn’t sure that he would be able to keep him still enough if Marcus pushed with all of his might, or even a substantial fraction of it.

Men bleed out and die from wounds in the wrong part of the leg all the time, Esca's seen that with his own two eyes. It'd be easy for Marcus to jerk his leg and get something vital nicked by the surgeon's knife. It'd be even easier for Esca to let up and shift his weight off of Marcus right as the surgeon was teasing something out. A moment and Marcus would be dead.

He wouldn't be blamed, Esca was almost sure of it, if he timed it right. There'd be one less Roman polluting Britain's shores, and Esca could bide his time until he could run up north and find a likely clan. Somewhere he could talk in his own tongue and try to forget the Romans even existed.

At that moment, Marcus opened his eyes again and let out a low grunt. Esca felt his stomach turn over with guilt. This was the man that he owed his life to. He’d be as bad, no, worse, than Romans thought the Britons were. A people without honor, in their view.

If he had done it, he’d have to forget the whole idea of honor and his family along with it, or go out of his mind with shame. A debt was a debt, and they’d be shamed by his actions. Esca couldn’t bear it, the thought of his father’s low rebuke, his mother’s face flushed with shame, and his brothers’ silent disapproval. He could almost picture his mother without seeing her opened throat now.

Despite the fact that Esca hadn't wanted him to do so— _that’s a lie, some part of him thought_ —, Marcus was the reason why he could go outside late, after everyone else was asleep, and take great big breaths of clean air. Even if Marcus was a Roman who didn’t understand anything properly, even if Esca would be better off dead, his honor would never allow it.

“There’s more metal in here than I thought,” the surgeon said, almost to himself. At that, Marcus could no longer hold himself still through sheer will alone. Finally, Esca was needed. It was a distraction, and he welcomed it.

When the pain eventually became too much and Marcus passed out, Esca found himself alone with his thoughts, the taste of guilt thick on his tongue. He knew it was irrational to be angry with Marcus for that, but he didn’t care. He chose to focus on all of Marcus’s many irritating flaws instead of berating himself, starting with how Marcus embodied almost all of Rome’s many flaws.

After, when Marcus asked if he had shamed himself, Esca told him the truth. All of the shame was his alone.

 

**2.**

When Marcus announced his stupid, stupid plan to go beyond the wall and track down the Eagle, Esca briefly thought about slipping some poison in Marcus's breakfast. It'd be easy. There were numerous plants around the villa that would do. Marcus hadn't recovered completely from the surgeon rooting around in his leg. Nobody would be surprised if he took another turn for the worse. He’d gotten himself worked up, after all.

Esca saw before him his mother's pale face, her chin stained with blood, and was disgusted with himself. Did honor truly mean that little to him? He spent more time out under the stars than usual that night. He'd pictured her with green in her eyes. Her eyes had been pure blue.

 

 **3.**

The first night that they were beyond the wall, once Marcus's breath had slowed and evened out, Esca sat and held his father's dagger in his hand. The moon was full and low, the perfect conditions for an ambush. Marcus's throat glowed in the light. Esca thought about slitting it.

A part of his mind whispered about how this would be the most merciful, no, most honorable action available. Marcus was sure to get himself killed, blundering around in lands that belonged to clans Esca's own father—a leader of five-hundred spears in his own right—wouldn't have tangled with. A quick, sharp pain in the neck and then nothing would be a better death than anything else.

Esca laid down and stared up at the moon, the handle of his dagger biting into his palm. He held his breath and waited for the guilt to pass. He hadn’t felt as torn up about anything for years, since his family died. Even when he knew he was finally going to join them, killed by Romans for Romans, he could only feel a small measure of anger, enough to keep him from fighting back.

He turned his head towards Marcus. From this angle, he could only see the upper part of Marcus's leg and his sword pressed against it. He squinted his eyes, as if doing so would allow him to see through the fabric and see for himself how Marcus's flesh was knitting back together. It was less futile than expecting Marcus to tell him if his leg was bothering him. Esca had spent most of the journey north with his gaze fixed firmly on Marcus's back, half expecting Marcus at any moment to tumble out of the saddle without a single noise of complaint passing through his lips. It hadn’t been concern for him, not really. If Marcus collapsed, Esca would have to lug him around, and Marcus was heavy.

He sat up again. Now the offending leg was obscured, but Marcus had stretched back his neck in sleep as if he were begging for it to be cut. Esca could almost see the scar from his helmet glinting in the light.

The sound of a bird landing on its unfortunate prey jolted Esca into alertness. They'd both be dead instead of just Marcus if Esca didn't focus. He spent the rest of his watch alternating between idly contemplating the extremely low likelihood that Marcus would give up and go back south where he'd be safe if Esca got up and slipped away in the night and picturing Marcus dying in every gruesome way he could think of if he did abandon him.

Once he roused Marcus for his turn and wrapped himself in his own cloak, his sleep was fitful. When Marcus woke him in the morning, his hand firm on Esca’s arm, Esca almost reached for it. He felt the words, _I thought you were dead_ form in his mouth, but he stopped himself before he said them. It had only been a dream.

 

**4.**

When Esca said that Marcus was his slave, there wasn't a plan. Just sheer panic. He'd been avoiding even thinking about the Seal Clan for weeks, as if doing so would summon them to them, or if his guilt would be made plain for Marcus to read on his face.

Only in dreams would he see the only possible ending. Marcus dead on the solid ground. Esca soon to follow. He'd wake, sick, his stomach rebelling. His honor wouldn't allow him to cause Marcus to die, but he couldn't see another way through. Marcus was too stubborn, too fixated on his own version of honor, to give up. It was almost admirable how Marcus was fixated on his own sense of honor. If it wasn’t going to end in Esca’s death, he’d commend him.

Later, once Esca had a moment to himself to think, he saw he had two choices. Betray Marcus and have him killed or betray the Seal People and help Marcus steal back his father's eagle. Either way, his honor would be besmirched. The Seal People weren't his people, but they were close. Esca might be able to pretend. Maybe, in time, he could even forget his real family and his real clan. That Roman deserter had managed it. Esca could too.

He found himself searching Marcus out throughout the day. Getting glimpses of his daily activities, watching him tower over the Seal People's slaves. He told himself that he only wanted to make sure that Marcus hadn't run off. That he hadn't gotten himself killed over some real or imagined threat to his honor. Esca didn't think that was the whole story, but he didn't want to probe his thoughts any further.

It wasn't until Esca had held Marcus's head back, his throat ready for a blade, his hair soft in Esca's hand, that he knew he'd already made his mind up.

He trusted Marcus to kill him if he had the chance and that was most of the bulk of the reason why Esca did trust him with more than just that.

He dreamed about Marcus on his knees for a different reason that night and woke up burning.

 

**+1.**

Esca had moved on from imagining Marcus dead except in his worst nightmares, the ones where Marcus would have to come into his room and shake him awake, his throat raw. Most of the time in his dreams, the Seal Prince dealt the final blow, but the worst ones were the ones where Esca killed Marcus himself. He moved when the surgeon was digging out the last piece of metal and Marcus bled out, Esca still pressed against his chest. Marcus sweated out his last breath, Esca’s fingers still burning from the poison he’d collected. Esca drew his father’s dagger across Marcus’s neck in any number of places.

Every time it was harder for him to say that it was nothing and turn away instead of turning down the blanket and inviting Marcus in. If Marcus had been a Briton, Esca would have done it the first day they’d moved into the farm. No, before that, as soon as Marcus’s leg had healed again.

Esca could picture it, every detail. The way Marcus’s breath would hitch, before he’d slowly climb into bed, how he would clutch at Esca as he pressed inside him, the shape of his mouth when he came. Except Marcus was Roman and his stupid Roman honor would never let him do anything like that. So Esca kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself. But, he did have hope from the shy way Marcus smiled at him over dinner sometimes, that Marcus might invite himself in one day.

That morning, Marcus had pointed out the first ripe apple of the season over a breakfast of hard cheese. Together, late in the afternoon, they’d filled a small basket up. Marcus had made to go inside with it, but Esca presented him with an apple from the top of the pile and sat unceremoniously down with his back against the tree.

Esca watched Marcus peel his apple with a sharp knife. Esca couldn’t be bothered to do the same, and the juice of his apple was running down his fingers. There was nowhere in the world he’d rather be than right here, on their farm, with Marcus having followed him there for once.

Their legs were stretched out next to each other, almost but not quite touching. Marcus’s tunic had bunched up, and Esca could see both of his scars.

Without thinking, Esca reached over and stroked the newest one. “Does this one pain you too?” He knew the answer, but Marcus wouldn’t admit it to him.

“Esca—” Marcus said. He stared at Esca, and then his gaze dropped to Esca’s hand on his thigh. He swallowed.

Esca knew what he was about to do was stupid, so stupid, but he put down his apple and slowly leaned towards Marcus anyways.

Marcus watched him advance, his eyes half-lidded. When Esca gently touched their mouths together, Marcus let him kiss him for a moment before drawing back.

“I can’t shame you like this,” he said. “I can’t.” Their mouths were still so close together that Esca can feel every word on his lips.

He thought of any number of defenses he could make, but none that would work on Marcus. Stubbornly Roman Marcus, and Esca stupidly in love with him, even the Roman part of him. Maybe even especially the Roman part of him.

Marcus had dropped his apple at some point, and Esca felt more than saw Marcus put his knife down to the other side of him and gently lift Esca’s hand off of his leg.

Esca sat back, feeling small and foolish. He discovered that he too was apple-less and almost reached out to the basket for another, for something to distract himself, but he didn’t have the energy. He had thought that Marcus had pitied him back in the arena, but he’d now seen true pity from him. That’d be a new image for him to dwell on.

Marcus was still holding his hand. Esca wanted to jerk his away but that too was beyond him.

The one thing he could do was look up at the branches of the tree and try not to completely despair. He knew this would happen, but knowing and _knowing_ was another thing entirely.

When he felt Marcus raise his hand up, Esca felt only mild surprise.

“It’s not,” Marcus started. He kissed the top of Esca’s knuckles. He laughed to himself, low and meanly.

Esca looked at him, his beloved face half in shadow. His hand burned where Marcus had kissed him.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he continued. “I can’t. It’s—”

“Shhhh,” Esca stopped him. “Let me. I can do it.” He kept babbling nonsense along those lines until he was kissing Marcus again.

This time, Marcus kissed back. Or tried to, he clearly had no idea what he was doing. Esca didn’t care. Esca knew enough for the both of them.

By the time Marcus had caught on, Esca had had the opportunity to catalogue Marcus’s shoulders, his chest in this new context. He was even broader than when Esca had helped with the surgery, but he didn’t want to think about that. He never wanted to think about Marcus being that close to death ever again.

Marcus began to stroke his back, and Esca couldn’t wait any longer. He pushed up Marcus’s tunic and kissed the side of his throat. Esca could feel Marcus’s pulse under his lips, every breath he was taking. A moment and Marcus’s cock was in his hand. He could feel his heartbeat there too. More evidence that Marcus was alive.

Esca stroked downwards once, twice, and listened to the little gasping noises that Marcus was trying not to let out. He hesitated, thinking about what he wanted to do most, knowing that Marcus wouldn’t, that he couldn’t reciprocate, and feeling a familiar prick of anger about it. He let go of Marcus’s cock and backed up so he could look at Marcus properly.

He looked completely undone, unable to even hold his head up completely. Esca doubted he looked much better, and they’d barely even done anything. It wasn’t even a decision for Esca to lie down and take Marcus in his mouth, not really.

There was only enough time to register the heat of Marcus’s cock against his tongue, the smell of him, the weight, before Marcus was pushing at his shoulder. He pulled off, and Marcus cupped his own hand around his cock and came almost silently. Esca got up and took Marcus’s hand before putting his fingers in his mouth instead. Marcus’s whole body shuddered against him, and he groaned like he couldn’t stop himself.

He was possibly the most turned on he’d ever been in his whole life, and he could barely put his thoughts in enough order to figure out how he’d get some relief without pushing Marcus further than his prudishness would allow.

Before he could get any farther, Marcus came to a decision first and manhandled him against the tree, so they were sitting like they had before any of this had started. He made quick work of Esca’s tunic and stroked him in turn. Slower than Esca had, but with a firmer grip, his thumb brushing over the tip, so Esca could feel his calluses against him. This was something that he knew how to do and do well. As soon as Esca had the thought that this must be how Marcus touched himself, that this must be how Marcus alone in his bed liked it best, he came. Unlike Marcus, he wasn’t too proud to make noise.

The sun had set completely at some point. Esca watched Marcus pull himself together, too spent to do the same for himself.

Marcus clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times, staring out onto the fields. His face flushed again. “If there’s more than that, I could. I love you,” he said, and turned to meet Esca’s eyes, intent. “I could try. I want—“

Esca stood up and offered his hand to him. Marcus grabbed it and winced slightly when he put weight on his bad leg. Esca felt a rush of guilt that only slightly abated when Marcus put his arm around his shoulders and let Esca take some of his weight, as if he knew exactly what Esca was thinking. He directed them towards Marcus’s much larger bed at a much faster pace than Marcus would have been able to tolerate all of those months ago. If Marcus’s weight was going to leave a mark on him, he thought fiercely, then let it.


End file.
